I. Honey Whiskey

her eyes are too dark, but they burn when she thinks of them. everything burns, her chest, her face, her skin.s he can’t imagine what it would be like, to have her skin flush with hers in ways that weren’t so innocent. she can’t meet her eyes anymore without feeling her torso heat like she’d just downed a shot.

II. Prism

“despair is a prism.” she can’t see her, but she remembers the way her eyes get, like she’s looking at something too far away to see clearly. “you need it to see that sunshine isn’t just grey, it’s every color of the rainbow, stacked on top of each other.” it’s hard to stay too sad when she spouts things like this, without warning and completely unprovoked.

III. Chlorine Thighs

they’d never actually been in a pool together so this had to be a dream. sunlight streamed through her hair like the water did, and she’d blame that for the shivers down her spine whenever their eyes met. She was babbling about something, anything, trying to keep her frame of mind, derailed by even the slightest giggle. she didn’t mean to dream them so close together, but her laughter filled the air, and they were nose to nose, and she smelled like chlorine. she woke before she knew if she tasted the same.

IV. Headlights

she’s afraid of driving, and claims she’s a better copilot. it hurts her heart to heart to hear it, sweet indulgent pain. she’s tying to remember to keep her eyes on the road and only letting herself glance over every so often. she looks beautiful in the flashes of her periphery vision, and as their voices rise in accidental harmony, she can’t help but glance over for a bit too long, memorizing the moment. eyes closed, lips parted, head tilted back… she looks like a vision. she almost forgets that green means anything more than being able to see her better.

V. Refuge

she hadn’t meant to cry. it was obvious in the way she stood, in the way she held herself a bit too upright, moved with too much purpose. she remember the way she’d stared at the ceiling as though breathing was too much, the way she didn’t even seem to see the things she was doing. she hadn’t known what to do besides hold open her arms, and then it had began. she held so tightly it was like she didn’t believe she was real. her breath came out all at once, and then she was breathing too quickly, hitches and gasps and small little shivers that only made her hold on her tighten further. her breath was warm against her shoulder, her fingers ****** in her shirt, and she was content to stand here, solid, safe, and wait for her to collect herself. no matter how long it took.

I.
It feels like an itch beneath her skin, like static electricity, like all her hairs on end, and she loves it. She knows that if she would only spread her fingers and say the words, she knows that if she were to close her eyes and open them again, the world would be in colors that no one else could see. She knows that if she would only let it free, it would spark and be euphoric-
her hand clenches into a fist. she ignores it.

II.
Her spellbooks are stacked haphazardly in boxes and her shelves are full of YA fiction. She does not go into the attic anymore. She lets them collect dust. She does not pour over old latin phrases or study greek for any other reason than to read Homer. She concentrates on Biblical Greek. A silver cross hangs around her neck. Her notebooks of tediously written translations are scattered to the winds. They are replaced with collegiate notes and short stories.She is a scholar. Her curiosity is never sated.
She does not go into the attic.

III.
Sometimes she wakes up five feet from her bed, her nose brushing the ceiling. Sometimes she’ll feel the wind and clouds pick up her emotions. Sometimes she hears the whispers of the dead. But they are whispers. Her prayers are louder. She closes her eyes and grasps at control, waiting until the forecast is correct again. She clutches her golden cross and tearfully waits until her back hits mattress.
It will pass it will pass it will pass.

IV.
She studies more now than she ever had. The girl who’d been able to get by on lectures alone is no longer satisfied with a B/C average. She hones her writing skill until it is sharp as a blade. She beats her pen to paper as though it can lead her to salvation as well as The Good Book. Sometimes she falls asleep at her desk and her papers float around her.
She buys more paperweights.

V.
The future is shadows and whispers. No longer do other people’s auras paint her vision with colors no one else can see. No longer do other people’s deaths and loved ones press themselves behind her eyes. No longer does she peer into souls that only stare back. They blur together like retired nightmares. She does not hear their voices. She does not see their faces.
Her vision is only 20/20.